


Give Your Heart And Soul To Charity

by MccoyKat



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of Pedophilia, Other, Schmoop, Swearing, gender neutral reader, weird religious sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:18:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MccoyKat/pseuds/MccoyKat
Summary: There aren't many druids left in America, so it's with luck that Sweeney finds himself near you whenever he needs a break. But really, he's the reason you're a druid anyway, and maybe you're lucky that your god has such investment in your life.But after the life you'd led, your relationship with luck is different from most people's.





	1. The Rest of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While making a big adjustment, our reader decides to explore religion and makes an interesting choice.

Looking back, you suppose it was a series of coincidences that brought you to him. Although now, knowing how luck worked for you, you were hesitant to label anything a coincidence. You were only nine years old the first time you saw him. Arguably you were too young to be vying for the favour of a king who was too old. It should have been more concerning, more dangerous. The overly large man at your window also should have been more concerning than it had been to you. But it had felt so right, safe, like home. You had been desperate for any kind of change in your luck. The move had been hard for you. Going from two parents to one had put a heavy weight on your small shoulders. Hearing your dad’s voice on the phone, so tiredly hopeful had only made you more sad. You cried the first time you’d hung up. Sad, weekly calls full of awkward, heavy silences were no replacement for wrestling and cuddling. Your mom was working now too for the first time you could remember. You were normally home alone from after school until just before bed when she returned, tired with drawn shoulders. All the time alone to yourself made it worse.

School wasn’t easy either. Your friends at your old school had promised to keep in touch, but the promises of well meaning children often come up empty. Your mother could offer little help other than a tight, tired smile, and the promise that at some point, things would be better. You doubted her, this was too big a problem to fix itself.

But you were determined to fix it. The public library was your armoury. You had a shiny new sticker in your journal that you got as proof of your memorization of the dewey decimal system. So you didn’t need to reference anything before heading straight to the 200s, specifically 203, looking for a way to change your fate. You did however pause to take in the smell of the books before soldiering on with a grim determination. You picked out a pile of books, all with gods and and goddesses who could help you, if you only knew how to ask. There were some other creatures too, their tomes mixed in from the 900s. You couldn’t be too sure.

With a determined huff you put the stack of books on the counter, and the librarian looked at you over her glasses, although not unkindly.

“That’s a determined young soldier right here,” she said, her fingers moving over the spines of the books, “But be careful with these. The gods aren’t what they used to be.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, immediately curious.

“Take these for example,” she pulled a book of Irish folklore out of your stack, “The seelie and un. The seelie are portrayed as good, the unseelie as bad; but the courts of the fair folk are rarely simple. They’re just fair. And everything does have to come back to equal. All the good in the world has the bad to match.”

She flipped through the book, running by the pages of creatures and gods.

“The seelie?” You asked, unsure as to what she was delving into, whose courts you were about to discover and meet. You peered closely at the pages, eyes wide with wonder.

“Yes. The fairies. If you want my advice, stay away from actual, big gods. They have too much at stake in humans. Find someone else.”

“Something like what?”

The woman looked into your eyes, the pale blue searching past you for something else, “Monsters maybe... Fairies… Or humans who have lived too long. It’s up to you, but remember they lead very different lives than we do. So whoever you choose. Be polite. Always use good etiquette when meeting someone, especially a god.”

“What are good manners for a god?” You asked, now infinitely excited to pour over the book in her hands.

“Treat them like a stray cat. A cuddly stray cat. Offer them food, praise, and respect, but expect nothing in return, and relish deeply whatever you get.”

You paused to consider her words. At some point while you were lost in thought she finished checking out the books out for you, and you were left with a stack to carry back. She was already gone from behind the counter when you realized. You mulled over the conversation the whole walk to your new home.

 

Two days later you asked your tired, haggard mother to go to the store. You wanted cream and a bun. Nothing big, you promised, but a little something that you could use for a project. You wanted to summon a god. Not a big god, you promised, but a little one. One that could help you.

Your mother didn’t believe it would work, but was willing to take you to the store, to pick out a bun and a small carton of cream. Anything simple that could potentially put a smile on your small face was worth it, she figured. And she was too tired to argue with you about such a small request. She then helped you plate up the bun with butter and put it and a mug of cream out on the balcony of this new, tiny apartment that didn’t feel quite like home. She then sent you to bed and promised to keep an ear out for anyone looking for the food.

In her head she made a mental note to eat the bread and pour out the cream before she went to bed. But as was routine for the past few weeks, she instead passed out in front of the television with a glass of wine beside her, to wake up hours later, her glass only a few sips emptier, and drag herself into bed. This meant she forgot to eat the bun, or even dinner, but it didn’t really matter, the food didn’t go to waste.

 

For Sweeney, he could count on one hand the number of prayers he’d been offered in the past 50 years. So to say the call was unexpected was an understatement. He was in a bar, somewhere in America, a cigarette on his lips and whiskey burning pleasantly down his throat when he felt it. It was a beautiful thrumming heat in his veins. The kind that reminds you of a beating heart and the feeling of home. He smiled wistfully at the woman whose top he was staring down and left the bar as quickly as he could, dreaming of a rough sea breeze the whole while.

A quick trip via hoard meant that he was outside of your apartment building even before your mother had fallen asleep. Now he had to wait until the lights went out. It took hours of sitting in the parking lot (smoking and regretting leaving the bar and the woman as fast as he did the entire time) before your mother finally turned out the lights and got herself into bed. He climbed up the fire escape, finding the plate with the bun, all buttered, and the mug of cream. He was touched, and ate with relish.

Then he was curious. Who had, after all this time, prayed to _him_ of all that was out there? This wasn’t an Irish household, he could tell. The woman didn’t have _any_ faith in her right now, in gods or systems or ex-husbands or lawyers. So it was the child. He hadn’t been prayed to by a child in quite some time, and the curiosity burned hotter in his chest. He found your window and stared in, trying to figure out the kind of child who would ask him for help, and what on earth they could be asking for.

Looking into your bedroom, he noticed a few things. There was nothing on the wall, and moving boxes - mostly but not completely unpacked - in the corner. There was a stack of books on your small desk, and clothing tossed on the floor with some toys and more books. You had a weird lamp on a night stand and an alarm clock that appeared to be set. At last he saw you, your hair peeking out from under the covers, and your eyelashes resting against your cheeks.

He stared for a while, contemplating what to do next. He knew most of the time it was best to leave. Don’t interact with humans, and don’t go in their dwellings. He would be trapped and have to haul ass for three wishes before he could leave again. So instead of a proper thank you he plucked a piece of paper and a pen from the air, and scrawled in his old, messy writing. Leaving a note on the plate, knowing that luck would stop the wind from blowing it away, he left to go back to the bar. His skin was brighter, hair thicker, and his step springier than it was before the offering. The woman at the bar wouldn’t know what he’d been up to, but she would assume it was drugs. That wasn’t a deterrent for her though, and made for a good night for him.

 

_Go raibh maith agat, mo éan beag._

“But what does it mean?” You asked your mother again. Your cereal was getting soggy but you had more important issues to worry about.

“I don’t know sweetie. That’s not a language that I know,” your mother seemed unenthused. Your prayer had worked, and soon your luck would change. It was great news, but your mother seemed rushed and even disturbed by the note. She chugged her coffee black that morning, wondering if she should call the police.

But you two _had_ left the food out on purpose, and bringing a potential predator into the picture would hurt her odds for custody. You were what she had left of her fierce dream of a happy life and she wasn’t about to let you go. You were too precious, she loved you too dearly. Her ex-husband may have been your father, and may have had a better job and house, but a cheating son of a bitch couldn’t actually know how to love, let alone take care of a child. Not when he’d thrown it all away for some younger pussy.

“It’s got to be Irish,” you said with confidence, finally digging back into your cereal.

Later, on a playground with a new friend and much less confidence you were asking,“How can I figure out what is says?”

“Use google?” You maybe-friend suggested, not looking up from their new ipod.

So you snuck into the computer lab, and looked it up. _Thank you, my little bird._

The thought warmed you for the rest of the day. You asked your mother to go to the store to buy another bun, but she refused. When you started to argue she pointed out that most religions only have one holy day a week. So if your day was going to be Tuesday, then it was going to be Tuesday. Not Tuesday and Wednesday, and certainly not every day.

You had never felt a week drag by so slowly. Your mother reluctantly acquiesced to another trip to the grocery store for another bun and another small carton of cream. You chipped in from your allowance for the cost this time, paying half. You’d been washing dishes all week for it. There were fewer dishes to wash now that there was only two of you, but you’d insisted the price for your work shouldn’t go down at all.

You buttered the bun carefully, setting it out on a plate beside the mug of cream. It made the empty little balcony look better, you decided. It made it happy. You left a small note beside it, with the carefully practiced words looking slightly less foreign to you now. _Cad is ainm duit?_

And you go to sleep a little easier that night, knowing that a fairy king is looking out for you.

 

Sweeney, for his part, was surprised to feel another prayer. He was at another bar in another state, staring down the top of a different woman. Had he known, he would point out that this woman had heavier breasts than the last, so the power from the prayer would be even more useful that night. But again he smiled wistfully and excused himself. At this point he cited a phone call from a distant but young family member. This wasn’t entirely untrue. He knew it was you this time, the prayer felt the same. The offering as well. He went back to the parking lot behind your apartment building and waited for your mother to go to sleep again. It didn’t take as long that night, he’d only gone through three cigarettes.

The bread and cream tasted amazing, bringing power back into his veins. But it was the note that made his heart catch in his throat. Part of him had been afraid that it was a mistake, but these offerings were definitely for him. And so he took a deep breath, and went to knock on your window. He froze though, his fist hovering over the glass. The scene that greeted him now was different. The room was neat, the boxes were gone, and a poster was up on the wall. It was more like a home after only a week, which made him smile. The last thing he noticed though, was that your eyes were open this time, and meeting his.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling the cigarette from his lips and throwing it off the balcony, trusting the wind to blow it out before it reached anything flammable. He also quickly checked himself to make sure there weren’t any bloody stains on his clothing or obvious bruises or anything that could scare you.

You, in the meantime, had crawled out of bed and to peer out at him, and open the window slightly.

“Are you my leprechaun?” You asked in an urgent whisper, cracking open the window. You knew that talking to strangers was dangerous, and men who show up at your window even more so, but there were more important matters on hand.

“Aye, that I am,” he responded, in a kind tone with a funny accent, “and you have been gifting me with prayers for two whole weeks in a row. Why might that be?”

You look down, trying to wrangle your sleepy, excited thoughts into order.

“Things aren’t good right now,” you finally said, “and I have questions no one will answer.”

“The lawyers and new home?” He guessed, looking like he already knew, and wasn’t pleased about it.

“I want it to not suck, or at least make sense,” You explained, fighting the tears that come to your eyes.

“Ach, _mo éan beag_ ,* these aren’t easy questions,” He looked like he would rather be literally anywhere else, “Look, I’m no expert in family sh-stuff. But I’m sure your folks love you, just not each other - and the lawyers and the move are the way they’re sorting it.”

“But will my luck change?” You asked him, your voice cracking with emotion.

“I’ll see what I can do,” He finally answered after a long pause, “But I make no guarantees, and luck always fu- comes back to even.”

“I know. That’s what the lady at the library said,” You agreed sagely, “but you don’t look like the picture in the book.”

“I never do. Always drawn too short.”

“No,” you giggled, “I mean what you’re wearing. It’s green. Not that. Here let me get it.” You scampered back into your room, pulling out the book. 

Indeed, the picture in the book showed a bearded man dressed in an olive green suit. Instead this man was wearing jeans, a tank top, a pair of combat boots, and oddly enough, suspenders. 

The man laughed, "So you've been researching. It was you who wrote me that note, wasn't it?"

You nodded sagely, and tried to remember how to properly say the words, " _Dia duit. _Cad is ainm duit?"__

The man's eyes were positively sparkling when he responded, _" Dia's Muire duit. Buile Shuibhne atá orm. Cad is ainm duit?" ** ********_

You struggled to remember how to put your name into the sentence while remembering his name and committing it to memory. 

Eventually the man interrupted you, "You can call me Sweeney  _mo éan beag_ , you've definitely done work for me over the past few weeks."

"Yes!" You said enthusiastically, and pushed the book out the window towards him, "I read the whole thing. I was going to read the others, but the librarian was right about which gods to look at. And you seemed perfect." 

You looked at him with shining eyes. Worshipping eyes. 

"I know I can't expect anything," you went on, half out of the window at this point, "but I needed to try something. I can't do nothing anymore. It sucks. This house sucks. I have no friends. Mom is sad. I don't see Dad. I hate it. But it can't stay like this."

Sweeney helped you out onto the balcony. 

"The thing about luck," He said, "is that it's always changing. No matter what you've got now, it doesn't last. Good luck aye, but bad luck too... We can worry about that later though. What else have you got in these books of yours?"

This ended with you going over the gods and creatures in your books, sitting close together out on the balcony, Sweeney correcting you here and there. In hindsight, this was you learning your gospel, on this tiny balcony, somewhere in America. He taught you a tiny bit of Irish as well, that first night, and you rolled the new words carefully over your tongue. He grinned when you got it right, a feral, toothy grin, and you found yourself returning it. At some point you started to doze, snuggled in close into him. He laughed softly to himself as you snuggled in to what was frankly a gross undershirt.

"C'mon little bird, up you get," he murmured, but you nuzzled closer to the solid warmth beside you.

You weren't fully awake but the beat of his heart and the feeling of someone close to you made you think of home. The smell of the sea breeze was new, but your sleepy brain decided that you liked it. You were safe. You felt that safety and warmth all through the night, and into the next day, even though you woke up in your bed alone. 

So really, your introduction to your god couldn’t be that different from anyone else’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I don't know this fandom well and a friend got me hooked on the TV show about a week ago and I needed to write this. This is also my first time writing a gender neutral reader, so let me know what you think. Thanks!
> 
> This is probably going to continue, but works well as a one-of I think.
> 
> * Literally "My Little Bird"  
> ** "Hello. What's your name?" "Hello (response). My name is Buile Shuibhne. What's your name?"


	2. The Best of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get darker as the reader grows up, and they don't cope with it well, deciding to test their luck against some terrible decisions. Luckily, their god seems to be dedicated to them, although pissed off about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, there's some mentions of pedophilia and child exploitation here as well as a whole bunch of other topics like underage drinking, sexually transmitted infections (although these two aren't related to the pedophilia). Please see the notes at the end for more detailed (but spoiler-y) description of it if you think that's triggering for you.
> 
> Also you have to picture me doing finger guns every time I write a variation of the word "luck"

And you were faithful. Prayers were daily, offerings were once a week, and on the solstices, equinoxes, and Saint Patrick’s Day (you were trying to be funny) you offered a bigger sacrifice. Generally it was something you cared about, like a coin you’d found on the sidewalk. You realized pretty quickly that he, and your luck by extension, liked those sacrifices which cost you more. Bread you made was worth more than some that you’d bought. While very rarely did anything considerably unlucky happen to you, but you learned how to read your luck. In that way, you were in constant conversation with your god, with your faith. A trip on the sidewalk resulting in a sprained ankle meant you changed up how you prayed, a winning lottery ticket meant your mother could take a day off and heartier bread for the next offering.

You also worked for him, and you learned for him. You studied Irish, took classes, and became almost fluent. Your mother was indulgent of this weird hobby of yours, and continued to sign you up for them. You met a wide range of people, most with the heritage, or members of the diaspora, but none with the faith that you had. You got involved in the Irish community centre in a nearby city, and somehow ended up being a regular fixture there. Life was kind to you, until it suddenly wasn’t.

The next time you saw Sweeney in person, it was almost 9 years later. You were 18, underage and drunk, about to go home from a seedy bar with a man more than twice your age. You were clumsy but you weren’t stupid, and the alcohol wasn’t enough to stop the nauseating rage from flooding your veins. You could still feel it coursing through you, and you wanted it to stop. You were twitching to make it go away. Fire to replace fire was as good a plan as any. Arousal to replace anger should work just as well. And while you weren't going to fuck who you were actually mad at- you swallowed down nausea at the thought- this man at this bar would do.

You looked suggestively down at the his hips, tucking your fingers into one of his belt loops as you sat too close to him, trying to figure out best to get him out of the bar and then in the morning get back to yours without your mother knowing what you’d been up to. Ah fuck it, you would figure it out that bridge when you got to it. Now you just wanted to forget and sex seemed like a great way to do it, since the alcohol clearly wasn't working. Although the man you were beside had put his best effort into making it work, offering you more every time your glass got below a third. Maybe he just figured it would make the sex more likely.

Not that you had any experience in regards to sex, but the man had gentle hands and kind eyes and really that’s all you needed. You couldn’t remember his name, but that was alright, you were pretty sure he didn’t know yours either. Right now you needed to do something, you could feel your body itching with the desire to move. So you finally ushered him out of the bar, his car and his place next on the plan. You were looking forward to it, in a demented kind of way. It was something to make you forget. You had almost made it out of the bar when you felt a hand grab your shoulder tightly, stopping you and the man just short of the door.

“Stay the fuck away from what’s mine,” ground out a low growl from behind you.

You turned around to confront whoever thought they laid claim to you, when you’re eyes met a chest. Working your eyes up you eventually found the red beard and hard, wild eyes you hadn’t seen in years, but were achingly familiar with.

You had not expected to see him. You hadn’t seen him in years, so why tonight? You’d prayed twice today, sure, but you always did that before you tried anything stupid. You wanted luck on your side, so you prayed. Still, you’d tripped on the stairs on the way out of your apartment, torn a hole in your shirt, needed to change again, and then tripped on the street, skinning a knee and ripping your jeans. There was still blood on the knee, but it was dark enough that no one really noticed. Luck hadn’t been on your side tonight. And now he was there, so what the hell did he want from you?

“What’s your problem man?” the guy asked, his chest puffed up until he saw exactly how outmatched he was.

“I said get the fuck away from what’s mine and we won’t have a problem. Unless you want to fight me for it,” There was a manic light to Sweeney’s eyes as he said it, and you suddenly remembered how dangerous the fairy king was. Seelie weren’t dangerous until they were.

The guy bailed, quick angry steps going back into the crowd by the bar. You didn’t blame him, honestly, you would leave too if a massive angry Irishman, with arms like that and looking for a fight, had confronted you. Sex couldn’t be worth it, no matter how young, sad, and drunk the other person was. The hand moved from your shoulder to the back of your neck, too tight to be anything but furious as Sweeney pulled you out of the bar.

“I am a god,” He spat, moving you through the parking lot, weaving between cars, “Your god, no less. Not some fucking babysitter.”

“Then what the hell was that?” You shot back, rounding on him at the edge of an alleyway “I didn’t ask for you to come here, I don’t want a babysitter. I haven’t seen you in years! I’ve prayed, I’ve done my offerings, I’ve been a perfect - whatever the fuck I am-”

“Druid.” He interrupted, “You’re a druid. But you’re not one worth shite right now. You prayed for luck, and then didn’t listen to it, did you? Barely made it out of your bloody house. But it still took an actual leprechaun coming here to take you away from whatever mess you were about to get yourself into. I don’t have courtiers anymore, no warriors to do my running for me, I can’t fucking send someone after you whenever you decide to be reckless, gotta do the leg work myself. And for what, to get yelled at by some stupid teenager who decided to get drunk instead of deal with their problems.”

In hindsight that was too hypocritical for him to really be able to take that stance, but you didn’t know that at the time. Instead you tried to push him away of you, too angry to put together a proper response, but he grabbed your wrists and forced eye contact with you.

“You’re not even mad with me, are you?” He asked, his words soft and dangerous, “You’re mad at your da and are looking for someone to take it out on. Couldn’t get it through alcohol, couldn’t get it through faith, I wouldn’t let you get it through sex, so what, you wanna fight? You can hit me little bird. But I will hit back, hard.”

And you knew he would too.

“Why?” You sneered, egging him on, wanting something to happen, something to break, “You jonesing for a fight? What kind of king looks for conflict? You fucking walked in there like you owned me- just- what even was that?”

You tried to tug your hands back, but it didn’t work, they didn’t even budge. Suddenly you realized how strong he was. Shit. You’d assumed your memories had been biased because you had been so much smaller as a kid. But he was just as you remembered, incredibly large and with a presence and force that you hadn’t seen elsewhere before. His fingers overlapped by no small amount as he held your wrists, you were outmatched.

“I do basically own you. You, in case you fucking forgot, pray to me daily,” He was too close to you, and the smell of an angry sea surprised you, “Now you’re drunk, and angry, and none of that is because of me. I just saved your ass. That man had chlamydia, and you know he wasn’t going to say shit, that blowjob you were going to give would have royally fucked you up a few years down the road. So consider what the fuck you’re actually upset about before acting like a brat and doing something you’re going to regret, whether that’s fucking or fighting or disgracing your god.”

You weren’t sure at what point the conversation had switched into Irish, but you were getting long looks and snickers from the people walking by. Small town America wasn’t always kind to non-English speakers. But the pause made you realize what exactly was going on, what had almost occured, and your face flushed red with embarrassment and shame. You realized what could have happened, and your stomach dropped.

“Shit, I-I’m sorry Sweeney,” You felt the anger leave your body, collapsing inwards and leaving an empty hole in its wake, “I just- Fuck, I needed to do something.”

He let go of your wrists, and pulled you in for a hug. You felt a sob bubble up and cried against him, clinging tightly. You felt a large hand run along your back in soothing circles. Once the tears had started you weren’t able to reign them in. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, crying into the shirt of your god.

Eventually you could pause and breathe again. He pulled away, looking into your eyes, running his hands to your shoulders, a firm and sturdy grasp, grounding you.

“Let’s get you home, little bird.”

* * *

The stairs up to your apartment felt like walking up to a death sentence of sorts. You had seen the lights on through the windows, so your mother was awake, and there were a few missed calls on your phone. Five, to be exact. The most recent one was from 10 minutes ago. You hadn’t checked the messages, you knew you wouldn’t be able to cope with the worry in your mom’s voice. Sweeney’s hand was on the small of your back as he climbed the stairs close behind you, a gentle supporting gesture that still forced you forward. You honestly weren’t sure if you would have made it up the stairs without him. Luckily, your shaking hands fit the key smoothly into the door, and you opened it slowly, letting a warm orange light into the dim stairwell.

“Hi mom,” You called out, not willing to pretend you were sneaking in. Not still half drunk and with a massive man behind you.

“Where have you been?” She demanded, coming from the living room, “I come home late, it’s a school night, and you’re gone, and so is most of a bottle- Who’s that?”

She had rounded the corner and finally caught sight of Sweeney, who had kicked off his boots and was leaning down to help untie yours. Your fingers were shaking way too much to do it yourself, so you were grateful he’d done it without your asking.

“Sweeney. He’s a friend. He uh,” you paused, but fuck it, there’s no point in lying, “He found me at a bar and decided to make sure I got home,” you sounded as tired and empty as you felt.

“Nice to meet you,” He nodded at your mother, with the low and soft voice you remembered from your childhood, “I’ll just make a quick pot of coffee and then be off.”

Your mother had a stoney expression, not pleased with you bringing a clearly dangerous man who appeared to be in his late 30s into her home. If only she’d known what almost happened, or what he really was.

“ _Labhair léi,_ ” Sweeney called over his shoulder as he ducked into the kitchen, his tone gentle and lilting, goading you into the correct action.

You didn’t even look up from your feet as you kicked off your shoes, “ _Cúl tóna._ ” *

Then you met your mother’s worried gaze and felt a nervous twisting of your stomach, “Mom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Then what did you mean to do?” She asked, “Why else would you go to a bar, on a school night, ignore my calls, and show up home drunk in the early hours of the morning with some random guy? What else were you trying to do?”

You closed your eyes, hard, rubbing at them with your fists as though blocking out what was in front of you could block out the entire situation, “I found out about dad. You left the letter on the table, and I had to get out, do something. Just- Fuck mom. How young were they?”

You could taste the silence. Heavy and angry.

Your mother’s voice was choked with too many emotions to name. “Oh... His computer, they were- they were young alright. Too young for that. The girl he- when I left, she was 18, but just. His computer was different. Kids far too young for any of that.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Did you know?” You had to ask, eyes burning, “When I was little, did you know that he-?”

“Fuck no! I had no idea he was like that. I wouldn’t have brought a kid into that. I wouldn’t have gotten myself involved if I’d known. Sweetheart, I want nothing more than to protect you.”

“And he’s going to prison?” You could finally look up at her tired, thin face. You knew the answer, you’d read the letter, but you needed to hear it out loud.

“Most likely. They found- oh god- they found a lot. He’ll be away for a while.”

And you started to cry. You hadn’t seen your father in years, when he’d moved to the other side of the country. The weekly phone calls had started to get less and less common, morphing into monthly or bi-monthly phone calls. But still, you were nauseated and angry, so, so angry, someone you had loved once had been involved in such cruel things to such innocent people-

Your mother came and wrapped you in her arms. You realized then that you probably hadn’t hugged her in years. It was strange, she felt so much smaller to you now. But for the second time that evening, someone you loved held you tightly and let you cry.

After a few minutes the smell of coffee wafted to you from the kitchen, and you and your mom pulled apart. Messy and grieving and angry, but united in a way that you hadn’t been in a while, the two of you walked into the kitchen, where a fairy king had made you both coffee. It was coming off of the mugs in steam, and he was leaning against the counter with his. You took the mug he offered you and sat down at the table. Your mother followed suit, clearly uncomfortable with this new addition to your small kitchen. You were feeling more tired than you ever had in your life. There was a silence for a few minutes, not quite comfortable, but less heavy than it had been before.

“So, you’re from Ireland?” your mother eventually asked Sweeney, her hands wrapped tight around a full mug.

“Aye, but I came here a long time ago,” He said over his mug, “haven’t been back in a near eternity.”

“And you two met at the community centre?” She continued, her grilling wasn’t subtle, but it wasn’t angry either.

“In a roundabout way I guess we did yeah,” you answered for him, so the lie was on you, “He knows some people I know, and has a knack for folklore and the language.”

“And what is it you do?” She asked, taking in the rough appearance of your apparent friend (It _did_ look like he hadn’t showered in a while), although she was obviously trying to not sound judgemental.

“I’m a freelancer, work for a guy who needs running done. Kinda like a personal assistant but for some interesting side projects of his. It's even legal, I do taxes and everything.” he lied easily, winking before he finished his coffee. He put the mug down on the counter and looked at you, barely keeping your eyes open at the table, “C’mon _mo éan beag,_ you need sleep.”

“You give me coffee and then tell me to sleep?” You laughed, “I dunno if that’s how this works.”

“Go drink some water and get into bed, you’ll be out like a light, trust me,” he smiled ruefully, “trauma does that to people.”

You got up from the table and trudged towards the bathroom. You could hear a soft conversation from the kitchen as you brushed your teeth and drank a cup of water. When you got out you waved at him on your way to your room, too tired to consider saying goodbye. Who knew when you would next see your god again, and another nine years seemed like too much of a weight to acknowledge out loud.

You’d pulled on some pajamas and had just slid into bed when there was a knock on your bedroom door. You got up and turned the light back on, padding over to the door. You were expecting your mother but found Sweeney instead, his large frame taking up most of the doorway.

“I’m heading out,” he said in Irish, standing awkwardly on the other side of the threshold “You don’t want to say goodbye and I don’t blame ya, so I’m just gonna let you know that I’m leaving and I’ll see you next time. But I need you to acknowledge that before I can leave.”

“But when am I going to see you? When is next time?”

“I don’t know. I hope next time you won’t need me like that. You’ve got passion, but that was just stupid.”

“I know,” you said softly, not able to make eye contact, “But I needed to do something.”

“You always feel like you need to do something,” He grinned, it was feral, “You always do. Turn that into something useful. You’re supposed to be a druid, grow a plant or some shit. Anger and fights are good fun, but only when you do them properly, for the love of them.”

You believed him, that he enjoyed or loved the fighting. This was a different version of the god you had met as a child. Closer to the warrior of the sun king, you refused to forget all the names he’d had before. 

“Right, grow a plant,” you laughed, “I’ll do that.”

“Nah, you’re going to go to sleep, you must be exhausted. Then sort out your life tomorrow, then you won’t need me, or anyone, to step in like that again," he said, and patted your shoulder, somewhat awkwardly.

You felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you.

“How’d you do that?” You yawned, as you made your way to the bed, knowing better than to fight whatever that was.

“It’s just lucky timing,” he explained, deadpan.

“Right, sure,” You muttered, sliding under the covers “But if you need help, you can come here too you know, or wherever I end up… Goodbye Sweeney, thank you for tonight.”

“Of course mo éan beag, I’ll know where to find you.”

And then there was nothing but a soothing darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this received more attention than I thought it would, that's very kind of you! I think I have about 5 or so chapters planned out for this at this point in time, and some of them may or may not include detailed sex scenes, but let me know your opinions on that, because it could go either way at this point.  
> I might be vaguely worried that Sweeney is out of character (I haven't even finished the show yet guys) but I figure he could be trying to save face in front of what is still a very young worshipper.  
> * “Talk to her.” “(You’re a) dick.”
> 
> HI I'M HERE FOR THE DETAILED TRIGGER LIST  
> Yes ok hi. The reader's dad is a pedophile who has been found with some (not described) child porn on his computer and subsequently arrested. The reader and their mother talk about it in vague, horrified terms. The reader also attempts to sleep with a random man while at a bar they're too young to be in while, the man has an STI he wasn't planning on mentioning, but they don't end up sleeping together.  
> If that seems like a bit much for you, shoot me a message and I'll send you the major plot points without those details so you can be caught up.


	3. Honey Belongs to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Sweeney shows up to our Reader's place banged up and a little bit insane throws them for a bit of a loop, but also gives them motivation to update their resumé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some injuries, first aid, and mildly sexual situations here but not much else, and nothing any kind of graphic. This also isn't edited as much as I normally do, but I'm too excited about it, so there might be an update in a few days that's just me editing.

You remembered the first time the community centre asked you to help with the annual plant sale. It was for Mother’s Day, and it was going to be busy. The folks who normally helped run it had moved away the year before and that left the community scrambling. 

“I know you must have plans with your mum, but we’d really appreciate it,” Niamh, the woman who did all of the public event planning for the community centre, all but begged you, “People find buying clover from us to be a laugh but it really makes us some money, it’s how we pay for all the ceilithe, really. We’d love to have all hands on deck, if it doesn’t pull you away from whatever it is high school seniors do.”

It was the night after the spring ceili that she’d caught you, while you were waiting for your mom to pick you up. There was an unnecessarily aggressive brocade on your shirt and you’d just spent the past three hours dancing. You were tired, happy, and feeling like a proper member of a community. One that you might be leaving soon.

You weren’t sure exactly what your next steps were, you’d started to apply for jobs and random college programs, but none of them really suited you. Some of them were close, and some of them were far away. Kelly knew that, that you could be gone whenever but were more likely to be staying right where you were for the next few years. But you appreciated her giving you an option to refuse and say you’re too busy. But you decided to do the volunteering. The group of them really helped you out with your dad, who had decided to plead innocent. They’d been an amazing support system and you didn’t want to let them down. Besides, you were directionless, and after praying about your lack of life plan, you’d been splashed by a car the next day, which had soaked you from head to toe. You didn’t need to be particularly insightful to read that one clearly.  _ Not that kind of god, fuck you. _ So it wasn’t like you had much else to do, and volunteering at a greenhouse seemed like an good option. 

And you loved it. The smell of the flowers and plants, the feeling of the dirt under your nails, the satisfaction of watching things grow. Customer service sucked, but if it meant you could work with plants, you figured it balanced out. On Mother’s Day you brought home a gorgeous pot of flowers, getting a ride from a generous friend, and set it out on the balcony with some (burnt but not wasn’t the point) dinner for your mother. She was thrilled about the flowers and polite about the food, and for an entire 24 hours didn’t nag you about finding something to do with your life. 

Later that week you found an advertisement for a job at a greenhouse, but this time you’d be paid something. Fortunately, you aced the interview, and started the next weekend. You found a note on the plate that Wednesday morning, when you were clearing up from your offering. 

_ Not what I expected when I told you to grow a plant. _

You started your next prayer off with a casual and loving “fuck you” before going on to your normal offering of thanks. But you truly were thankful, the more you worked at the greenhouse, the more you liked what you did. Your exams flew by and suddenly you were free. No longer in high school, and no plans for afterwards. Most of the people you’d been close to at school started moving away at the end of the summer, and you stayed where you were. Your boss helped you to start looking for apprenticeships and horticulture programs. You were surprised by the amount of skills that he seemed to think you had. 

“Absolutely write down that you’re bilingual, that’s a big plus,” your boss said, going over your resume and applications, “If I’d known that I might not have even bothered with the interview.”

“But Gaeilge isn’t exactly the most useful language to speak. It’s not Spanish or Hindi or Mandarin,” you argued back, “It’s a hobby.”

“It’s a skill,” he insisted, marking it down on the print out, “and you should put down your skills. What else are you good at? Besides plants, obviously.”

_ I can make a mean loaf of wheat bread and dance properly at a ceili,  _ you thought. But instead you said, “I don’t know. Can I get back to you on this? It’s intimidating to be honest. I’ll develop some skills before the end of the summer, and then we can look over it again.” 

“What kind of skills do you think you can learn over a summer?” He asked, honestly curious. 

You liked your boss, he was a good man, paid you on time, and seemed to genuinely want the best for you. You were grateful he was willing to go over this with you, but the questions made you uncomfortable. For someone who prayed as much as you did, you still didn’t like to sit alone with your thoughts all that long. 

“I’m sure something will come up. I’ll learn a programming language or first aid or something,” you offered, running over ideas in your head as you left the office  and went through the greenhouse to start making your way home. 

* * *

The loud, insistent knock on the door surprised and scared you. Your mom had gone to a concert that night, and you still expected to have the house to yourself for a few more hours before she got home. You weren’t expecting someone to try to break the door down at 11 pm on a Monday. You got up slowly from the couch, putting your book on the coffee table. The knocking didn’t really stop.

You walked to the door, making sure that you were quiet enough that the person on the other side of the door wasn’t able to hear you approaching. You looked through the peephole, and saw someone’s chest on the other side, and angling your eyes up, you saw the red beard that you were very familiar with. 

“Little bird, little bird, let me in,” he was muttering at the other side, shifting from foot to foot. 

He seemed off. There was a nervous, manic energy to him. Of course, you knew his stories better than basically anyone else at this point. You knew he was insane, but looking back, this was your first real taste of it. You sent him a quick prayer, laughed at the irony, and opened the door. As the light from the apartment lit up the dim stairwell, you tried not to gasp. You weren’t expecting him to be quite that bad. There was blood and bruises all over his face, and one of his eye was swollen almost completely shut. He had blood stains on his shirt, and tears on his jacket. The cigarette behind his ear had been torn and tobacco was in his hair and neck. He reeked of several different kinds of alcohol. His gaze was far away, not quite with you, not registering you, though he heaved a sigh of relief when he realized the door open.

“What the fuck,” you croaked, going to pull him in before remembering, you’d trap him if you did, “You’re free to come and go as you please.” 

You had no idea if it worked or not but you grabbed his arm and tugged him past the threshold, closer to you to take a good look at his face. 

“Anywhere else? Are you bleeding from anywhere else or just your face?” You asked him, trying to keep your voice from spiralling up into hysteria. You were holding him arms length away, looking him up and down. “Did anyone follow you?” 

“Just the face, bastard wouldn’t punch anywhere else. Wouldn’t even fight properly, so no fucking way be followed me, and we both got kicked out at the same time and that was four states away,” he said, laughing softly and staring at you but past you, “But it’s not the body, little bird, it’s the mind. I’m fucked. I have things to pay off now and it’s going to sting like a bitch. I shouldn’t’a agreed to work for that bastard. Didn’t realize I had another choice, did I?” 

You put two and two together pretty quickly, “You’re upset with your boss and went looking for a fight. You looked for a beating because you’re upset. That’s some masochistic bullshit right there... Are you ok?” 

He shook his head, eyes looking at something you couldn’t see. Future plans, you guessed. Or the past, you weren’t sure. You didn’t think he was either, judging from the way his eyes were glazed. You weren’t sure if he was in the middle of a flashback or really drunk. Maybe both.  

“Ok, ok,” you said, ushering him into the kitchen, towards wooden chairs that wouldn’t stain when he sat on them, “Come here, and take a moment. It’s safe here. I’ll make some tea and then get you something for your face.” 

“Something stronger than tea?” He asked, an emotion almost in his voice. 

“You’re half drunk already,” you insisted, “Tea, then conversation. You drinking isn’t going to fix this problem, and you already feel like shit.” 

“This problem can’t be fixed. Not by me. There’s going to be so much death on the horizon. I can’t think of a way to fix it. I can’t… But I have to!” He started rocking in his seat, and his hands were shaking as he placed them on the table. 

“Ní mór duit análú, Buile Suibhne,” you said calmly, sitting in front of him, turning the conversation into something he wouldn’t have to translate in his head, “Stay here while I get a cloth and some cream. Your face is messed up right now, and you have blood in your teeth.” *

You didn’t trust him alone right now. He seem shaken, and it scared you a little. You grabbed what you needed from the bathroom, as well as a cup of water. You wrung the cloth out in your hands and tried to stop them from shaking. There was no way gods often called upon worshipers to clean them up after what sounded like and definitely smelled like a bar fight, but this was the god you’d chosen to worship. This was just a part of your duties. You smiled ruefully as you went back into the kitchen, but now your hands were a bit steadier. 

You set the things on the table, pushed the cup of water towards him and started the kettle as he took a sip, before pulling a chair out from the table to face him. 

“Look at me, please,” you gently urged when the god didn’t turn to face you, instead staring into the water, “I’m going to clean up your face, alright?” 

You weren’t entirely sure what instinct you were working off of but it seemed to be working because he looked you in the eye for the first time that night, and let you move the cloth to his face. 

He hissed as it touched the cuts and you hushed him, small soothing noises. You hummed something as you were cleaning the blood off and made sure there was nothing in the cuts. The whole while his eyes searched yours, so you tried to seem calm and relaxed while he did.

“You know me,” he eventually said. His body language had changed. He was making himself about as small as he could. It wasn’t only that his usually bravado was gone, but he looked physically smaller. 

“Yes. You’re my god,” you responded simply. You were a little surprised to meet this version of him, the one you’d found so many stories about. But you were familiar enough with this that it didn’t freak you out, it just added another dimension to the object of your devotion. It was just you meeting another version of who he was.

“I know. You prayed to me, earlier, before you opened the door. I could feel it…” he trailed off, letting the sentence hang there. 

You just nodded as you finished cleaning the worst of the cuts, and applied the polysporin, ensuring they were clean and would stay that way. Only one of them had refused to stop sluggishly oozing blood, so you put a bandaid on it, and looked back at your handiwork. It was better than before. The water had washed the blood off of his teeth, and there wasn’t any blood left on his face, although his eye was still swollen. He looked better. 

At this point the kettle had boiled, so you went and got a mug and dropped a tea bag into it. While you did Sweeney finished the cup of water. You grabbed an ice pack from your freezer for his eye and gave it to him, then set the mug in front of him to hold as it steeped. 

“Do you know what happened?” he asked, holding the mug tightly with one hand, and the ice pack to his eye to the other. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” you replied, sitting back down across from him. 

“How long ago?... You’re dressed strangely. When did? How old am I?” He asked, eventually settling on a question. His voice was soft, gentle, and very very lost. 

“Fifteen hundred years give or take a few. Although, I could be completely off. It’s from what I can figure. Catholicism arrived on the island for sure by 430, so I think that’s about it.” You said, picking at your cuticles. 

“Ah. Of course… Do you have food?” He asked, changing the topic. His voice indicated he had no idea how old he was either. 

“Yes. I’ll make you a sandwich. But can you go shower while I do?” You asked, because he reeked of whatever bar he’d come from, and there was no way that your mother would take to that well. But there was no way you were letting him out of your sight until he was at least mostly himself, or at least the version you guessed he spent most of his time as. 

You took his hand and showed him to the shower, turning it on for him and showing him the soap. 

“Just wear your tank top and boxers after,” you said, pursing your lips, “I don’t know if we have any clothes that will fit you. But you can wear a robe, I know I have one of them somewhere. I’ll put your clothes in the wash, so bring them out with you when you’re done, ok? And I’m going to have to reapply the bandaid and the cream, but we can do that after you’ve eaten.” 

He nodded and you headed back into the kitchen. You started making the sandwich but stopped to text your mother. 

**Sweeney is having a mini crisis. I said he could stay the night. Is that ok? He’s just a bit banged up and not entirely there rn.**

It was less an actual question and more just letting her know that the leprechaun would be there when she got home. She didn’t like him, and had asked you all sorts of questions about him after the last time he’d been there. But you’d assured her you trusted him with your life and answered the questions as best you could. Yes, he’d had a wife and a kid at one point. No, he wasn’t in contact with them anymore. No, it was because of mental health problems, not crime or abuse. No, he hadn’t tried to drag you into any scheme. Yes, you knew that he ate (sometimes at least). It had been a long conversation, your mother ending it with “I don’t like the way you look at him. You shouldn’t look at people like that, like you’re devoted and grateful to them. It just ends in heartbreak, always.” And you supposed she was right. And if Sweeney has been a man you supposed she would be right about him too. _ But, _ you thought, cutting the sandwich in half as the water turned off,  _ he’s not, so she’s not. _

You put the plate on the table and stuck the cup in the dishwasher. The tea was only slightly over brewed, so you pulled the bag out and added a tiny bit of water to cut it. As you were setting it back down on the table Sweeney walked out. 

He was softer looking now without the denim to act as armour, and his hair flopped half in his face. He held his pants, jacket and shirt in his hands. You took them from him and motioned him to the table. He sat down while you put them in the wash, and went to find your robe. It was a long, grey, fleecy affair, but the evening was a little chilly for the time of year, so you figured it would be alright for him. You pulled it out of your closet and went back to find him in the kitchen, sandwich finished with the mug of tea in his hand. 

“Do you feel better?” You asked, sitting down across from him and sliding the robe toward him. 

He nodded, running his hands through the soft fabric. There was something more familiar, more sure about the way he moved his hands, even though he wasn’t quite back up to his normal self. 

“You back to the version of you I see most often?” You wondered aloud, in English again. 

He looked up at you, and huffed out a small, sad laugh, “Yeah, not a bird anymore, just a leprechaun.” 

“Perfect, let me fix your face up again,” you said, moving closer to re-apply the polysporin. The cut that had still been bleeding had closed up a bit in the shower. This close you could smell the sea from him again. You were taken aback for a second. 

“Uh, do you want to talk it over?” You offered, when you finally sat back again.

“Not …” He said right away, but caught himself, so you let the pause hang in the air, “Basically I have to do some stuff I don’t want to do because I have debts and in a few years this is going to kick my ass. Make sense?”

“Not at all, but I believe you. Do you have any way out?” 

“No, none. I have to get someone into prison first, and then I’ll have a few years to look for one, or at least a few years to figure out how to stop the war.” 

“Ok. Ok. So we deal with this later, if we’ve got the time,” you decided, “We both need sleep after tonight. You’re staying the night. Although I don’t think I trapped you here, so if you really want to go you can. I don’t know if you sleep-” 

He chuckled, “Yes. I sleep. Not many gods I know that don’t.” 

“You know other gods?” You don’t know why this surprised you. The idea of deities networking was hilarious and nauseating to you all at once.

He cocked his head, “Little bird, who do you think my boss is?” 

“Yeah, we’re definitely dealing with this later,” you said firmly, “Bed now, you can feel free to join me or use the couch, I don’t care. My mom should be home within the hour, so be prepared for when she walks in if you’re awake.”

He stood up and put the robe on, his fingers twitched over the fabric, “I’m going to stay up a bit I think. I have things to go over. To uh, plan.” 

You nodded and headed into bed. You were mostly asleep, but it didn’t feel like much later when you felt him slide into bed beside you. You attempted to move close to the wall to give him space, but one of his hands caught your back and pulled you tight to him. You could hear his heart beating in his chest, and feel the warmth radiating off of him. You snuggled in against him, and somewhere the child inside of you smiled as you got closer to home. 

* * *

You woke up the next morning, and Sweeney was still a wall of warmth against you. Your bed was slightly too small for the two of you, but you weren’t complaining. The god beside you was still asleep, and you tilted your head up to face him. He looked calm while he was sleeping, although exhausted. There were bags under his eyes and a tight set to his jaw. You ran a hand up to his face to feel it, mindful of his scabs as you lightly traced your fingers over his nose and cheek. You weren’t sure how long you were doing it, but he woke up pretty soon after.

He laughed softly when he realized what you were doing. 

“What? How many people get to do this with their god?” You asked, looking into his eyes. 

“Too fucking early for bloody theological questions,” he yawned. 

“Ok, breakfast first, theological questions after,” you replied, trying to figure out how to climb over him to get out of the bed. 

“Two offerings in one day? I guess I’m a lucky god,” he said, looking at your face very closely. 

You realized how close you were to him and flushed, “Well I’d hope so, otherwise kid-me picked it very wrong.” 

His hand moved down from your hip closer, almost to your ass. You closed your eyes as he shifted closer to you, almost pressed entirely against you. 

“I’d like to think you made a very good choice,” He whispered against your forehead. 

“I-uh, I generally think I did,” You swallowed hard, trying to focus over your blood rushing through your veins. It didn’t work very well and Sweeney laughed. 

“Too much? Sorry little bird. Lets get some food,” he kissed your forehead and sat up in bed. You tried very hard not to look at him too closely. 

That didn’t work very well either. 

* * *

At the end of the summer you felt accomplished as you set down the file of new certificates on your boss’s desk.

“Oooh, someone was busy,” he said, flipping through them, “Let’s see, first aid, mental health emergency response, crisis response, and conflict mediation… Damn, you were busy. That’s a lot of qualifications.”

You felt a flush of pride at his praise. 

“But why these ones?” He asked, suddenly serious. 

“I uh, had a friend go through a rough patch, and these suddenly seemed useful to my everyday life,” you explained carefully. 

His eyes met yours, considering, before he said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Be careful, ok? If this is your everyday life, I’d hate to see what an emergency looks like.” 

You thought about what Sweeney had said, about the war a few years down the road. He was right, you had a few years to prepare. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, “I’m going to hate to see it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter ran away from you and you know it, clap your hands. *clap clap*  
> Seriously, this one is roughly 1500 words longer than the other ones, and I was trying to keep them consistent. This was also the first one where I had no idea where it was going when I started writing it. But! it was gratuitous and beautiful and if I can't be gratuitous in a character/reader fanfiction where can I be?
> 
> Edit - Whoops I forgot the translation "You have to breathe, Sweeney."


	4. Ain't it a gentle sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War is brewing and Sweeney stops by for a visit. It's weird for two reasons; he brings a corpse, and the corpse makes teases you about how loud you are during sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my lord thank you folks for being patient. I've flat out never written a sex scene before. Let alone a gender-neutral one. It took way to long (some real life thesis stuff and a brief illness and a lovely summer batch of ennui got in the way as well). And I'm still not happy with it! But it's work-able and therefore postable. Enjoy!

Sweeney was about ready to punch the woman beside him. But that wouldn’t work too well. He knew how strong she was, and how fucked he was. The years had passed by too quickly and here he was, at the start of a war he didn’t really want to be the cause of without his fucking lucky coin. Killing the (albeit not so loyal, and incredibly cunty) wife of a demigod wasn’t his best move, he’d admit. But fuck, it wasn’t even his move, it was Wednesday’s. He was just stuck here, a minor god with the shittiest job in the country. And somehow he’d ended up in a car with a dead dead wife, no lucky coin, and no clear job instructions. To be fair, he’d ended up in a car with _this_ dead wife a lot. And now they were going on a weird road trip back from Wisconsin vaguely towards Louisiana or maybe it was to save Shadow and-

Sweeney’s head spun a bit, the edges of his story threatening to collapse in on itself. Fuck, he hated when this happened. He growled under his breath and clutched tightly onto his slippery sanity, his large frame folded up in the passenger seat. He was about to lose it in this car, stuck next to the woman, without his coin, again. There were only so many ways sanity can slip before it gets ridiculous, but the closer they got to the war the more his was threatening to flounce away and not come back, sticking up its middle finger as it went. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been feeding off of your consistent prayers, but you’d been silent today, and he felt a bit hollow, starved and dizzy.

It was golden hour, the sun was setting and Laura had her eyes on the road, her lips pursed and her expression strained. Another day had passed, another day closer to her rotting away, and they weren’t any closer to finding a solution, or her husband. Sweeney flicked his eyes from her up to the highway sign, looking for a location to ground himself in. Something had to be not completely insane in any insane situation, and geography was normally good for it. Trees rarely, though not never, moved.

“The fuck - Where are we?” He asked out loud, trying to confirm that he had inadvertently wandered that close to you. 

“Where the fuck do you think?” Laura responded, “Middle of nowhere.”

“Oh no,” He tried to grin, but he only succeeded in baring his teeth, “This isn’t nowhere, we are so close to somewhere. Somewhere to spend a bit of time so I can recharge before we get your blood pumping again.” 

“Why should we stop here?” She asked, her voice was calm but acidic, “We can still go another couple of hours before we need to stop for gas, and I don’t sleep, so we might as well keep going. Not all of us have unlimited time, you might remember.” 

“It won’t cost us shit,” he promised, his voice like a funeral, “Not gold, or money, or anymore fucking favours, and it will be safer than any other place in this forsaken country. There, I’ll be as powerful as possible without my goddamn coin.”

“Fine.” Laura relented, “But what the fuck is so special about this nowhere? You don’t exactly have a good track record of finding useful people.”

“Look, there are only a handful of druids left in this shitty country,” If Laura had looked over at her companion, she would have seen his eyes shining, “And only one of them prays directly to me.”

* * *

 

After that first time Sweeney stopped by your place without his sanity, he made a habit of it. Even when he lost his mind he knew you were safe, a believer with no quarrel against his branch of the Seelie court. You imagined that was rare for this country, at this particular time. So he would stop by wherever you were living at any given time, and pretty frequently. Your mother had hated it before you’d moved out. Once you had, moving to the other side of town to be closer to an apprenticeship in a nursery just outside of it, she’d made you promise to call every time he stopped by so she knew you were still alive. You could understand her concern, even if it was annoying. He _was_ always some sort of fucked up, whether it was his sanity had skipped away for a bit, or he was drunk, or he was bloodied and injured, or any combination of the three. Or, like two weeks ago, when he’d stopped by your place with hollow eyes and an empty voice that announced he’d killed a woman start a war. 

Not a war, The War. You’d spent that night holding him close and muttering reassurances. How you believed in him, and what he did, and understood his situation. You had talked about how you’d be safe, how you wouldn’t stay put and let the War come to you. You’d promised more offerings. You’d also offered him food and a shower, and stroked his hair through the night. He’d left the next morning to report back to his boss, looking a bit less like a corpse, but still grim. 

The War you’d spent the past almost four years preparing for was now right around the corner. You had more first aid and first response training than was realistically practical. You could fight, and well. That had been a weird thing to learn, but now you weren’t afraid of any bar fight, which probably wasn’t much against gods, but it was more than nothing.

You’d still decided to move to somewhere “safe”. You’d saved up some money, and so you switched from a full time nursery job to a part time job caring for specimens in a lab. It was interesting work, and you were learning more about how the plants you loved to much worked at a foundational level. The lab was in a different spot, which you figured would be a good. A new town where no one knew you would be safer than the small town you’d spent the past 13 years of your life in.

You were only one town over, but you were still aching from moving boxes and furniture and your plants all day. Moving is always hard, and moving your beloved plant collection had taken a lot of planning. You’d also spent the entire day trying to avoid praying for good luck, lest Sweeney accidentally tell Wednesday where you were. You hadn’t realized how often you prayed throughout your day, and not doing it felt a bit like not getting enough oxygen. You just wanted to shower and go to bed, but you needed to put out an offering, and a good one after today. It was more important now for Sweeney to know exactly where you were even if it wasn’t a Tuesday, even if you’d been hiding it earlier. So you sighed, shouldered your backpack, and started to the grocery store to buy some bread and cream. 

* * *

 

“The apartment is empty Sweeney,” Laura was impatient rather than apologetic, “There’s no one here.”

The sun was almost below the horizon, and you were still silent. The apartment you’d spent two years in was empty, and Sweeney felt his stomach drop. If his only follower had abandoned him at the start of the War-

“No no no no no that’s wrong. That has to be wrong. I was here two weeks ago, after I-” He bit his tongue to stop himself from bringing up Laura’s death. But he didn’t quite manage it. His hands were shaking and his eyes weren’t focused as his mind raced, trying to figure out where you’d gone. 

“After you what? Killed me?” Her voice was acid, “You came here to someone who worships you. Do they know that you’re a murderer?” 

“They know me fucking better than anyone else do-,” He insisted before his voice was cut off by some invisible force. He felt his blood move a little smoother, and the shaky nauseous feeling left him. “It’s not Tuesday is it?” 

“What the hell? No.” Laura was walking back toward the car, and she didn’t look back. 

“One town over, we need to go one town over,” He suddenly had a frantic, joyful energy to him, and reached the car before Laura, muttering as he got in, “I went to the wrong place. Sneaky one, my little bird is, moved because of the war Wednesday’s brewing. Didn’t let me know until after the move, so now Wednesday doesn’t know.” 

* * *

 

It took Sweeney longer than normal to show up for the offering. He normally would be there within a few minutes, particularly recently. He’d been staying closer to you than before, even if you didn’t speak, you’d been seeing him every Tuesday for the past few months. 

It probably should have been worrying that you found waking up to find a gigantic man coming in through your bedroom window a comfort, but that’s the life you’d decided ended up with. Sometimes you could convince him to join you on the couch or in bed, to stay close and quiet to let himself rest. This time though, after waiting for a few minutes, you gave up. The move had been long and you’d been too tired. You felt bad about being so silent today, but you still had things to do. 

You were able to shower, change into some sleep shorts and a t-shirt, make a cup of tea, and finally slip into bed. The bread was still on your windowsill, glaringly wrong in its wholeness. The mug of cream was full. You tried not to worry about it, the war wouldn’t be starting that soon, would it? Sweeney was probably just working or something.

When you did notice someone at your window, you had already started to doze off. He knocked, which was weird, but he knocked hard and quick. It was demanding, which suited him honestly. You sleepily padded over to open the window, and you saw a small woman behind him. Or, rather, the living corpse of a small woman behind him. 

You opened the window to hand him the plate of bread, unable to take your eyes off Sweeney’s companion. He didn’t touch the food, but held it in front of him as you ducked your head out the window to get a better look at the woman.

“She’s dead,” you pointed out, tired. 

“Yeah, I fucking know,” the corpse responded, “This bastard is the reason.” 

You turned to face your god, still half hanging out of your window, “You killed her?” 

He nodded, his shoulders held were tense as you considered this. 

“Is this the person from two weeks ago?” You asked him, trying to figure out how a dead woman wasn’t so dead. 

“Aye,” he said, his voice was quiet. 

“You didn’t do a very good job then,” you said, your tired brain finally connecting the dots, and leaning back into your room. 

The woman laughed, but it sounded bitter.

“Her husband got my lucky coin and-” Sweeney sighed, “It’s a long story little bird. Can we come in?” 

“What? Oh, of course!” You looked him in the eye, “Tá cead agat teacht agus dul mar is mian leat.” *

The tension drained from his shoulders and you studied him closely as he climbed in through your window. He seemed tired, the kind that wouldn’t go away with a single good night’s sleep. He wasn’t bleeding this time, but there were some fresh bruises on his face that made you cringe. The woman climbed in after him, and it took you about half a second to realize that she reeked. You quickly ushered them into your new kitchen and away from the fabrics in your bedroom, lest they pick up the smell. Sweeney left the offering on your windowsill.

“Can I get you tea?” You asked, settling them at the cramped kitchen table. 

“She can’t eat or drink, it speeds up the rot,” Sweeney said, “but do you have anything stronger than tea?” 

You wrinkled your nose but grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort and a glass, poured him a couple of fingers and set it in front of him. 

“I could take the bottle, love,” he said, hand reaching to your waist as you tried to walk away. 

“You could, but I won’t give it to you. You’ve got a perfectly good offering on my windowsill if you want anything else,” you said, your voice moving into a slow calm cadence, the way you always spoke with him when he was anxious or insane. 

And he was anxious. He was tired, and tense, and your heart ached for him. If it were anyone else you would have prayed for them, but that wouldn’t really work here. 

You muttered a quick prayer anyway, and he laughed, letting you go. 

You sat down close to him, and looked at the corpse sitting at your table. 

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, “I didn’t get your name, I don’t think.” 

“Laura,” she replied, a surprisingly normal name for the level of fucked up the situation was.

“Laura. Got it,” You were at a loss of what to say, “I don’t want to ask how the war is going, I really don’t.”

“Hasn’t really started yet,” Laura said anyway, “The gods are too busy jerking each other off and picking sides and fucking with Shadow to start anything.”

“Shadow?” You asked, tasting the name in your mouth.

Sweeney drained his glass, his hand gripping your thigh under the table.

“My husband,” Laura explained, “Wednesday convinced him to work for him once he got out of prison.” 

“Wednesday sounds like a dick,” you said in sympathy, running your hand in soothing lines over the back of Sweeney’s hand. 

Both of them nodded.

It wasn’t for another forty minutes that you had the chance to excuse yourself. You needed sleep, badly. Laura didn’t sleep, so you told her she could have free reign of your place, and laptop if she needed something to do. Sweeney hadn’t looked too thrilled at that. You knew they didn’t get along too well, that had become clear in the first fifteen minutes of meeting her. There was also a tension there, and not one you wanted to get too involved in. It wasn’t your place to ask anyway. They were on the way to maybe save her husband, who they’d let get away from them. There was a lot more to it than that, but you told them earnestly you didn’t want to know.

You excused yourself from the table, and raised your eyebrow at Sweeney, offering him a place beside you but not forcing it. You weren’t sure how things had changed with the war or with Laura here now. He followed you into your bedroom. 

Laura rolled her eyes at the wall.

* * *

 

“You were nervous,” you said, finally sitting on your bed, tired to the bones, “when you first got here. Why was that?” 

“I was showing up with a body. You moved without telling me. There’s a war about to start. Lots of reasons.” He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. 

You patted the space beside you on the bed, “I moved because of Wednesday. I’m not stupid, I know he knew where I lived. You would have told him at one point. Or he would have followed you. This just seemed best, a few hours at least of him not knowing where I was. And I moved in four hours before the offering. You weren’t missing much. It was just unlucky timing. Which, considering your coin is currently busy with someone else isn’t that bad.” 

He almost laughed. Instead, he moved closer to you, half onto the bed but he paused, “I almost forgot the offering.” 

You watched him move to the window, grab the bun from the plate, and take a bite. 

“Do you actually enjoy eating it, or is it just a god thing. Like, would you prefer a hamburger or something?” You asked, something you’d been wondering for a long time. 

This time he did laugh. 

“I like bread, aye,” he looked at you closely, “but I’ve taken all sorts of offerings over the years.” 

You remembered that first time he’d stayed with you. The glint in his eyes was back, and you felt yourself flush, just like you had three years ago. 

“All sorts huh?” you said, “I can imagine. Druids certainly have been creative with offerings from what I’ve read. I’m literally white bread in comparison.”

You knew the history of your faith, the care and sacrifices into the earth, as well as _other_ kinds of offerings.

He took another bite out of the bun, “Oh aye, and spring always had the best festivals and rituals. It’s incredible how much energy people have once the sun comes out.” 

You snorted, “Does that work the same way? Could you sustain yourself through sex as a sort of offering instead of bread?”

“I did,” he took a sip from the mug, “for years. You can spin it anyway you want, but getting someone to call out your name as they orgasm... It works like a charm. Haven’t had to since I started getting regular offerings. Doesn’t mean I don’t. But I haven’t needed to.” 

“How often do you need an offering?” You asked as he finished the bun and cleaned his hands off on his thighs.

“I can go a while without one, but every few days or so tends to keep me more than sane enough. Most of the time. But I’ve gotten used to your prayers, so the radio silence today almost killed me.” 

You felt a sudden wash of guilt. You hadn’t meant to cause him any pain. You just wanted to be safe. 

“Hey, hey, little bird. None of that,” he said, “you’re a good, faithful druid. But you’re my only druid, so I put more on you than I’ve had to before. Gods can only live when someone believes in them, and right now, without my coin, I need all the juice I can get.” 

You got up and hugged him tight. The smell of alcohol and stale sweat overpowered the fresh smell of the sea, but you buried your face into him just the same. You had a fierce desire to protect him.

“I do believe in you. You are my god,” you said into his collar bone, “and my only god. I do believe in you.” 

He kissed the top of your head, wrapping his arms around you, “My little monotheist... I guess I got lucky.” 

You felt incredibly safe, and lucky. A war was brewing, but here you were with your god and it felt almost as if nothing could touch you. 

Eventually he pulled away, “I can _feel_ how tired you are, little bird. Time for bed.” 

You set your jaw into a stubborn line, “Only if you join, and please, _please_ don’t leave before I get up?” 

He kissed your temple and directed you to the bed, “Geallaim.”

You let yourself be ushered into the bed, and waited while he stripped to his tank top and boxers. 

You tugged him in beside you and cuddled close to him, “Go raibh maith agat.”** 

You’d barely settled in when sleep took you. 

* * *

 

You woke up in the darkness, maybe three hours later with a very large, very warm god sleeping beside you. You sleepily moved closer to him, nuzzling against his chest. A warm, heavy arm wrapped itself around you and you sighed happily. You tangled your legs in with his, trying to, with your sleep addled brain, get as close to him as possible. 

One of your hands ended up under his shirt, pressed against his stomach, massaging the skin there gently. Suddenly the hands wrapped around you tighter, pulling you against him as he awoke. 

You looked up into a very alert pair of brown eyes. 

“What’re you looking for, little bird?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

“You’re warm, and here, and beautiful,” you tried to explain, yourself not entirely sure of what you wanted. 

You wanted to be close to him. You wanted to give yourself over to him. You wanted to be entirely at the hands of your god. But that wasn’t something you could vocalize at the wee hours of the morning, when you yourself weren’t sure if you were even awake. 

He suddenly moved on top of you, a warm, solid weight pressing down on you, and kissed your jaw softly. You gasped slightly against it, surprised at how insistant a soft pair of lips could be, but you wound your hands into his hair as he worked down your neck. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked casually, as though he didn’t notice how your pupils were blown, or how your scent had changed to something much headier. As though your thoughts weren’t spinning 100 miles an hour. As though you couldn’t feel him hardening against your thigh as you struggled to think past the hazy cloud of _want_ suddenly flooding your veins. 

“I- yes. I want you,” you said, pulling him up for a proper kiss. 

There was suddenly a frenzied energy to his movements, and you were still dizzy from the kiss as he moved his hands all over you. At some point his clothes ended up on the floor and you wanted nothing more than to just run your hands and tongue all over him. 

But instead you tugged off your t-shirt, and he leaned back over you to kiss down your neck to your shoulders, his hand moving along your chest and his fingers finding your nipple. 

“I gá duit, Buile” you murmured, your hands carding through his hair. ***

He growled low in his throat and pushed you back so you were lying on the bed. He kissed down to your hips and you squirmed, aching to feel his lips elsewhere. You shifted as he moved down beside you, helping him pull off the shorts you’d been planning on sleeping in. He then settled happily between your legs, eyes sparkling with unbridled joy.

“Oh little bird,” he said softly as you were bared to him, “this is the real offering.” 

He leaned down to nip and bite his way along your thighs,  then kissed at the marks and bruises he made on your legs. 

You flushed under the intensity of his gaze, but spread your legs slightly wider. You were already throbbing and leaking for him. 

You moaned low in your throat as he licked a single, beautiful stripe from bottom to top, getting his first taste of you. But then he put his mouth exactly where you needed it most. You bucked up against him, trying to get more of that wonderful, teasing tongue. He huffed out a laugh against you and then did something with his lips that had you gasping for air. You looked down into his eyes as he ran his tongue over you again and again. You gripped the sheets and tried to stifle the moans and whimpers that snuck out of your mouth.

At some point your legs wrapped around his back. When his massive hands spread over your hips to hold you down, and he did that thing with his clever tongue again, you came right onto his tongue, with his name on yours. 

“Fuck,” you said eloquently, when you could put a thought together. He kissed your inner thigh. 

“Much better than bread,” he said, grinning like a cat, and then pulled a strand pubic hair from between his teeth.

You wanted to throw a pillow at him, but instead you just groaned and looked at your ceiling. You knew at that moment that he’d ruined you for just about everyone else. He just sat back up on the bed, still between your legs. As you looked between his, you saw he was hard, weeping, and beautiful. 

You sat up, almost entranced as you ran your hand over his thigh and wrapped it lightly around the shaft of his cock. A small bead of precum oozed out of the tip and you licked your lips.

He hissed softly, “Don’t tease, not now.”

You leaned over to him, working your hand as you kissed him, hard and desperate. He groaned into your mouth as you teased your thumb over the tip of his cock. You smiled against his lips, looking to wring that sound out of him again. 

After a few minutes of your hand moving at an increasingly steady pace you decided you had to taste him. You moved back, never slowing your hand as you lowered your lips to his cock. It wasn’t possible to maintain eye contact but you felt him run a hand into your hair and then tighten his grip as you took him into your mouth. 

“Fuck -” he choked out, as you ran your tongue properly over him. 

You tried not to laugh as you realized you were literally worshipping a dick, but instead hummed on it, adding vibrations as you bobbed your head up and down on his cock. His hands couldn’t stay still in your hair, and you could see how his thighs tensed when you swirled your tongue over the tip. You enjoyed pulling small, wrecked sounds from him, too much to stop. 

“I -” He started to say, and you just doubled your efforts. Your hands held his hips still the best you could as you pulled him as deeply into your mouth as possible. It was with a soft, low moan that he came onto your tongue. 

You swallowed with a small grimace, kissed the head of his cock, and finally looked up to make eye contact with Sweeney. Hand still in your hair, he tugged you up to kiss you. It was a sated, filthy kiss. You smiled against his lips and then pulled away, stretching out your neck to wring the cramp threatening to appear in it and your jaw. He laughed softly and moved back to orient himself properly on the bed. 

“Come here,” he said, lying down again and pulling you up close to him. 

“All kinds of worship I guess,” you murmured into his chest, kissing whatever patch of skin your mouth could reach as you settled back down into a warm sleep. 

* * *

 

The next morning, Laura smirked as you poured your coffee. Sweeney was already out looking for a new car to steal. 

“If I had something that could make me moan like that, maybe I would have believed in it,” She said.

You bit back any comment about her husband and instead just smiled, “I’m lucky I guess.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “You are allowed to come and go as you wish”
> 
> ** “I promise” “Thank you”
> 
> *** “I need you, Sweeney”
> 
> Ok so Folklore (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030289/chapters/24584313) by greyorchids is some of the best sex I've found written in this fandom (It's not complete), and Monsters-and-Maw on tumblr makes some of the best gender-neutral writings I've ever seen. I didn't even know it was really possible until I saw their work, actually.


	5. The Rolling in the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A corpse knocked on your door carrying the dead body of your god.   
> It sounded like something that one of the esoteric scientists you worked with would tell you as the set up of a bad knock knock joke. But upon answering the door to your apartment, you realized it just was the newest twist in the plot line of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of death, and some moving of a body. And also penetrative sex, though not with the body... Well, not when it's dead.
> 
> Also! I'm sorry for like, the months of delay, but I have a mostly written thesis now! So that's neat!

A corpse knocked on your door carrying the dead body of your god. 

It sounded like something that one of the esoteric scientists you worked with would tell you as the set up of a bad knock knock joke. Claiming humour in the weird, end-of-existence conversations the biologists seemed to like in their free time. But upon answering the door to your apartment, you realized it just was the newest twist in the plot line of your life. You felt your heart take up residence in your stomach as you saw the tiny corpse carrying a much larger one on top of her shoulder. 

The silence was thick in the air as Laura hesitated to meet your eyes. The only noise was your ragged breathing as the one living person.

“He’s dead… I… What the fuck happened?” Your voice rasped, your hand still on the door handle. 

“Shadow stabbed him with Wednesday’s spear - by accident,” Laura explained. Aftter everything, she was still eager to paint her husband in innocence. 

She came in past the threshold with her oversized load. You muttered a greeting in Irish, allowing him to leave when he wanted, by habit. As though Sweeney would be able to get up and leave. You started to shake as the weight of what you were seeing hit you, after all the times you’d devoted yourself to him, you didn’t imagine he’d be gone, not ever, and certainly not within your lifetime.

“Let’s - uh, put him on the couch I guess,” you said. 

The small corpse seemed impossibly strong, so you didn’t offer to help. Instead you just watched her go into the other room. You flinched upon hearing the body thud as it collapsed against the couch.

“You’re taking this better than I would have,” Laura said, sounding softly impressed while she moved around in the other room.

You said nothing, but your shaky fingers managed to close the door. You peered into the room, he was on your couch, lying still and quiet.

“I just didn’t know where else to take him,” she was still talking, “I thought New Orleans but - fuck-”

You put a pillow under his head. His skin was cold. You shuddered as you remembered the warmth of his skin against yours, not even two weeks prior.

“I didn’t know gods could die is all,” you said, unable to take your eyes off of him, “It seems wrong.”

It was so so wrong, every nerve in your body was revulsed. He was still. His large body was normally humming with energy, and to have it taken away made you fundimentally uncomfortable. His face had always had some expression on it, often fierce, and to have it relaxed into dead solace made you want to cry. The shell of your god reduced to this made your stomach twist in a new, visceral way that nothing could have prepared you for.

“They can die, I’ve seen it happen.” Laura said, standing awkwardly out of the way, “But she didn’t have any believers left. Sweeney is a smaller god, but he has at least one. He said - he said that around you was the strongest he could be.” 

“I guess I’ve gotta raise the dead then… Fuck.” 

Your mind raced until you remembered -

“I’ll clean him off, make an offering and do some rituals or something,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. You finally tore your eyes from his still, peaceful face, to meet Laura’s, “I need to head to the store, get bread and some cream. Guard him, please?” 

She nodded.

You pulled on your leather jacket, grabbed your wallet, and made your way down the stairs and out of your building. You didn’t live far from a grocery store at all, its proximity had actually been one of your considerations when you moved. You weren’t sure when in the day it had started to rain, but the cold, bitter weather made the dark streets glitter as you walked to the small local store.

The bright lights and warm air of the grocery store were a pleasant wave over your shocked body. You paused, and then got your bearings and walked into the bakery section. You decided to shell out on the good bread, organic cream, and your fingers were grabbing a bottle of southern comfort before you could think too hard. Your small basket of items looked sad to you, but they still gave you a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe a sorry little grocery basket could bring a god back from the dead.

The young man standing at the register had a small gold cross glittering on his necklace. You smiled tiredly at him. He had been there a lot since you moved in. He was nice. Friendly.  

“French toast?” He asked, checking out your items.

“Uh, religious thing, actually,” you said, pulling out some money. 

“Really?” His eyebrows rose, “Southern comfort is religious?”

“You’d be surprised. And, if it works, it will definitely be holy in my books,” you muttered.

“Well, uh, good luck,” he said, handing you your bag of tricks.

* * *

You walked past the threshold, dropping the bag just inside the door. The orange lights of your apartment didn’t cast any warmth onto your skin. Laura stayed out of your way, staring at the body. You got right to work, dripping as you set up two plates, one to sit on the coffee table in front of Sweeney, and another on the windowsill of your bedroom. The bread and mugs of cream stared back at you. You added a shot of southern comfort beside it, and sent a quick prayer. It felt weird to pray without knowing if the other end was receiving it. You muttered to yourself about the definitions of faith while putting the half empty carton of cream into the fridge. 

You were going to get Laura to help you clean off Sweeney’s body, but you were pleasantly surprised to find that he’d been cleaned properly. What should have been a gaping and bloody hole in his chest was instead a neatly stitched seam. Although his shirt was still destroyed. Laura saw your expression and muttered that they’d come from a funeral home, and you could tell they’d done their job well. You sent a prayer of thanks. 

* * *

“We fucked,” Laura said into the silence at some point while you were moving from one room to another, “in New Orleans.” 

You kept going.

* * *

You made and burned a small effigy of a man on the coffee table, setting it into a ceramic salad bowl. The wicker man was archaic, and the sticks from your plants were too green, but you figured it was high time you do some of the truly old parts of your religion. You were lacking the white robes, but with America being the way it was, you figured jeans was more suited anyway. You wore his denim jacket. It had some blood stained edges, but it still smelled like him. You sat down in front of the coffee table, hoodie up, jacket bundled around you and nodded to Laura. 

It was time.

When you heard the front door click shut and lock, you closed your eyes and started, for the first time, some good old fashioned worship. 

A true druid took 20 years to learn the entire gospel word for word. They’d also had others around to train them. Your god had given you his books, and you’d worked and learned and studied. But even if you had been in an ideal situation, with others and more resources, you were only 12 years into your faith. There were gaps and holes in your Word. 

But you had newer stories than the original druids. You knew how he came to America. You knew how he had slowly lost power and you wove those stories into your prayer. The recitation was took all of your concentration. But at some point, the world seemed to shimmer and shift around you.

You looked around. You were sitting in a forest. Your god stood near you. This time, he was very clearly a member of the other realm. A fae king wandering through his woods. You stood up too fast, and the world spun around you, but he was still there, stable and real.

“Wee bird,” he said. 

He sounded sane and vaguely surprised to see you. You finally let yourself break down and sob as you threw yourself at him. 

“You died,” you cried into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you. They were warm, and something in you unravelled.

“I did, didn’t I,” he said, running his massive hand along your back, “but I stopped a war in the process. Fixed what I said. The spear is in my hoard, Wednesday is fucked, no one can get it.” 

You could hear the grin in his voice, and hugged him tighter. 

“That doesn’t tell me how you got here though,” he continued, his voice soft and warm in your ear, “How’d you find me, little bird?”

“I’m praying... I-I found an offering, burnt an effigy, and I’m praying. I just ended up here,” you pulled back to look at him, but you couldn’t make out what his expression meant, “I don’t know how.”

“You crafty little- It’s been a while since someone burnt me an effigy. You’re reciting right now aren’t you? The whole Word that you know.” 

“Yeah,” You pulled back to look into his eyes, “I don’t know if it will work, or even can work, but if faith can bring a god back, I’m willing to single-handedly pull you into my world.” 

“A new kind of fight, but I expect you to be just as fierce as always.” He smiled, crinkling his eyes, “We fight for the love of it.” 

And there was nothing. 

* * *

You opened your eyes to find yourself lying on the floor in front of the coffee table. There was movement from your couch, and you sat up quickly. Your whole body felt sore, your muscles achy and you were soaked with sweat. You almost fell back to the floor, but you heard a retch from the other side of the room and you realized somehow your god was back. 

You scrabbled to the other side of the room, the floor feeling rough against your tender skin. Sweeney was lying half off the couch, taking shuddering, deep breaths. He was pale and waxy, but he was breathing. You were beside him in an instant, your hands on his face. He was starting to warm up. His eyes weren’t quite focused, but he was there. Your forehead touched his, and you could feel his breath against your lips. Your god was back. You couldn’t help it as you started to cry against him, and sobbed harder when you felt his hand in your hair. 

* * *

It took some time for you to help him Sweeney up into a seated position. The relief that washed over you was total and all consuming, but you needed to be a dutiful servent as well as devout. You got him to take small sips of the cream, and when you were certain the retching had stopped, and the offering was staying, you went to pour a bath. It was partially to warm him up, and partially to get rid of the scent of death that still clung to him. When you got back into the living room, he was picking at the bread, a blanket around his shoulders. He was looking blankly at the burnt figure of the man on your coffee table. 

He saw you come back in, and his eyes locked on you, “Mo éan beag.” 

“Hi,” you said, and paused in the doorway, suddenly shy.

You’d followed him into death. This went beyond where most people took religion and worship. You were suddenly aware of how dangerous it had been to both of you, and how vulnerable the two of you were, in the middle of a war. 

“You brought me back,” he said thoughtfully, his voice only half present. 

“Yessir,” you pushed yourself fully into the room. You’d never felt this exposed before. 

“Mo éan beag... I’m fecking tired,” His voice was so quiet you could barely hear him. 

“You just came back from the dead. I only visited and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” You said, “I think you’re supposed to be tired. I’ve got a bath for you, then we can sleep. You’ll feel better once your body has been cared for” 

He allowed himself to be shepherded into the bathroom, and you helped him strip and ease into the bath. His skin turned pink under the warmth of the water, and when his eyes turned to you, almost entire alert, you let out the final breath you’d been holding. 

“You’re still praying,” he said softly, his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled, “I can feel it.” 

“You’re still coming back,” you replied, “how do you feel?”

“Stronger, I can almost figure out what language you’re speaking.” 

“Ha,” you said dryly, switching into Irish, “can you almost find your way back to the pot of gold?” 

“Fuck off,” he said, “If I only had one pot you’d have near fucking nothing to worship, I can tell you that.” 

Eventually he was warm enough to tug out of the bath, and dry off. On your way towards bed, the door to your apartment opened and Laura walked in. She looked relieved upon seeing the two of you, her always hard expression softening into something you couldn’t place. 

“It took you long enough,” was all she said, “I don’t know if he’s worth three days of prayer.” 

“Fuck you too, Dead Wife,” Sweeney responded, not deigning to stop to talk to her on his way toward your bed. 

You stopped though. 

“Three days?”

You felt sore, like you’d lost a game of chicken with a bull driving a fifth-wheel, but you didn’t feel dehydrated or hungry. There was no way three days had past, but she had no reason to lie.

“I was going to stop you tonight, make you at least drink something before you kept going and died.” Laura explained, her voice dull, “But three days was honestly too long for me to waste on him. I’m going back to New Orleans to see if I can stop from... becoming worm food.” 

And she was gone.

But she was smiling to herself as she left, so you figured whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t what she said. 

“She never says what she means, little bird, don’t take it personally.” Sweeney said, not even pretending to not poke in your mind as he took the shot of southern comfort from your window sill, your towel slung around his hips. 

There was an energy in the air, a humming that you’d associated with your god for the past 12 years, one you thought you’d never feel again. Part of you wanted to keep crying, but most of you wanted to sleep. You stripped down, and Sweeney hung the towel on your doorknob. The two of you fell into your bed around the same time, and neither of you stayed awake long enough to even pull the covers up. 

* * *

You awoke with a gasp. You were throbbing, hot and leaking, and Sweeney’s hands and lips were on you, electric against your skin.

“I- fuck- oh my god,” you groaned as your scrambled thoughts struggled to get together. 

“Exactly,” Sweeney muttered against your lips as he kissed you desparate and  _ alive _ . 

You kissed him back, fierce and hungry. The air crackled around you, and you could taste the power on him. Whatever this was, he was back, and he wanted you. 

You bucked against him, and felt his hard cock on your hip. You throbbed.

“Can I have you?” He asked, his voice low and his eyes heavily lidded. 

And you, the dutiful worshiper groaned, “Fuck, please, all of me.” 

You felt his spit slick fingers against your entrance, and you moaned as one slid inside you. When you were clenching pleasantly around it, he added another. Eventually you were leaking non stop as he fucked you with his fingers, biting your lip to stop the noises. 

“Let me hear you little bird,” he said, grinning as he twisted his fingers right to where you needed them. 

You choked out a groan, your back arching as he repeated it over and over, until your vision went white and your toes curled.

When you had mostly returned to earth, he slid his fingers out, and you whimpered at the emptiness inside you. Your limbs were too lax to do much else, but he kissed you hard, and you felt the slick tip of his cock against your entrance. You groaned as he stretch you open, filling you beyond what even his fingers had managed. You took a shuddering breath that turned into a filthy moan at some point as he bottomed out in you. 

“This,” he said, pulling out in one slow, sweet drag before filling you again, “is real worship.” 

You felt your eyes roll back in pleasure as he continued to thrust, the slick drag of his cock against your walls was blissful, and you pushed back against him. 

You felt as much as heard him groan above you, and suddenly his pace increased. With the brutal snap of his hips, your hands scrambled to find hold on his back, your legs wrapping around him. There were scratches along the back of his recently reinhabited body, and you felt yourself start to shake against him.

“Fuck little bird,” he kissed you past your heavy breathing, “Are you going to cum for me again?”

Devine intervention or not, you came hard, clenching on his cock as he cried out and emptied into you. It took a some time for you to fully come back down. 

But Sweeney was already moving, out of the room. Your heart ached for him, those seconds he was gone. But the tables simply had turned as he returned with a warm wet washcloth, slowly and gingerly cleaning your tender skin before he lied down beside you again. He kissed your forehead, like he’d done You snuggled in close to him, breathing in the smell of sex and life and warmth, and you smiled. 

* * *

“Wednesday could still find me here,” he said, much later, his hand playing in your hair, “I- do you think we could go back?”

You didn’t have to ask where back was. He’d followed a worshipper here, he could follow one back.

“It will have changed,” You warned, as if he didn’t know.

But you thought about it, the bloody years since he’d been there, the split, and still… You realized for him, it would always be home. 

You decided, “It’s not the same, but, I can try to get over. Besides, I’ve always wanted to do a pilgrimage.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever magic can bring a god back from the dead can stop three day old cream from curdling. Fight me. 
> 
> Also! Thank you for sticking with me for the months this took, I hope it turned out as well as you'd hoped. I've loved all the comments and I have been super appreciative of it, even if I haven't responded. <3


End file.
